


Moor Island

by CoatTheBoneless



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 08:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17679554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoatTheBoneless/pseuds/CoatTheBoneless
Summary: something im working on for my creative writing class. stop by later, it might have changed!





	Moor Island

July 9, 1861

I had dug the grave as deep as I had the energy for. Though I was lent a sort of strength by my tears, it was barely more than a shallow hole. He deserved so much better. I couldn’t think of words to say, and I still can’t. Even if I could think of them, I couldn’t voice them here, where there are listening ears. They are not words for the crew.

Ben Moor had been my only companion for years, keeping me from going mad. We would fish together on that beach, telling each other stories and jokes. It would distract us from the sun and our empty stomachs. Those sounds of laughing, waves, and seagulls still haunt me, wafting down into my cabin from the deck of the _Osprey_.

I was rescued soon after the funeral, by an explorer’s vessel. The captain himself came to shore, arms open wide in greeting and a grin splitting his face, asking who I was. I was soon brought aboard the ship and given a room and bed. That first night was heavenly. If it weren’t for Ben’s loss, I would be happy here.

But the captain insists on rubbing salt in the wound. While his actions are more than friendly, there is one thing I cannot forgive. He has named the island after himself.

I spied his map as I was wandering the ship. It was rolled open on one of the few empty portions of table that could be found. Next to a freshly drawn, small spit of land was the hastily scrawled handwriting: Donaldson Island. The sight made me instantly nauseous. It was wrong, _is_ wrong. The name should go to Ben. Did the captain toil there day and night, gathering dew and rainwater, spearing fish, weaving shelter so that he wouldn’t die under the sun? He did not. Did he spend nights around the fire, unable to sleep for the growling of his belly, renaming constellations to distract himself? He did not. Did he live there, sweat there, BLEED there? No. It is not his. It is Ben’s.

I have decided to change the map. Hopefully I will be able to scratch off the ink next to my old home and replace that name with “Moor”. As I am practiced in neither this nor stealth, I can only pray to whatever god is listening that my plan goes well. Some may ask why I do not simply hold and wait, appeal to change the name later, talk with the captain, something else. But all these are uncertainties. Those outcomes lie in the hands of others. This, I can do. And if I can calm the grating against my soul with my own two hands, then I will.

Before I leave, if I cannot say the words you deserve, Ben, then perhaps I can write them. I loved you. You were the only reason I lived long enough to set eyes upon this cursed vessel. If this goes poorly, I pray to see you again.

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/coat-the-boneless)   
> 


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